


How Fond

by simplemelodies



Series: A Bad Love Like This [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Progressive Teenlock, Teenlock, This is out-of-order and will make more sense if you read the other ones, stupid john is stupid, stupid sherlock is stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:17:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplemelodies/pseuds/simplemelodies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes there was water all around him and a dock above his head and thin fingers wrapped around his wrists that promised not to let go, not for anything.<br/>Sometimes he was drowning, and those fingers were gone, and he had no one to tell him it would be okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Fond

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fifth in a series of (out-of-order) stories involving the summers between John Watson's and Sherlock Holmes's years seven through twelve. Please forgive any mistakes, for I am not from the UK and therefore I am absolutely horrid at the customs. Thank you to Lucy (pawtal on tumblr, and Pawtal on AO3) for bearing with me and teaching as much as she can, and for inspiring this little project. You're forever a little shit, but who cares. Also, for Tirzah (gingercult on tumblr and shippingjohnlock on AO3) for the constant encouragement. I couldn't ask for a better best friend.   
> I really do wish you enjoy this little piece.   
> C.J.

_Your love meant trouble from the day we met._

 

X

 

His lips tasted like tea.

It was funny really, because John expected the flavour of Sherlock to be something more like cigarettes and stale words. But as his lips ghosted across skin the only thing he could think of was Earl Grey and sunshine. There was a hint of something else, too—something he could only describe as _Sherlock_. And when he found that taste again and again that first night, it about drove him over the edge.

 

X

 

_I don’t know what this love is for. All I know is that I don’t want it anymore._

 

X

 

He’d have to see John again, and that made Sherlock angry. Because he was fourteen and about to be in year nine but he had to go through one more hell of a summer because his mother was infatuated with a bank teller from the city.

Sherlock despised them all. Save for Mummy, of course. But _why_ did he have to stay in a cabin with limited bed space and no bug spray? Surely Mummy didn’t believe he _wanted_ to do this.

Mycroft didn’t have to.

Sherlock didn’t want to see John again, either. He was so dull with his normality. John wanted to be a _doctor_ for crying out loud! Such a mundane occupation. And yet, it seemed to fit the blond.

 

X

 

And in that little space of time, when breathing was all that could be heard and John was sure that what had happened was all a dream, he remembered. He thought of the taste of Earl Grey in the corners of a perfect cupid’s bow, and the mint undertone of toothpaste, and the lingering scent of nicotine stuck to pale skin. He remembered the soft skin that gave way to little huffs of pleasure when pressed the right way. He remembered a name, faintly, being whispered through the empty spaces between hitched breaths. _John._

And he remembered the name being said in return.

_Sherlock_.

 

X

 

Sometimes he ran with wolves. Sometimes he walked on the sidelines. Sometimes he was looking inside the window of his flat on Christmas when he was age three and wondering why Mummy didn’t just tell him they didn’t have the kind of money for presents this year. Sometimes he was underneath a blue June sky and the grass was towering above him because the field behind the school was unused and no one had decided to mow it in a long time and general Chemistry was just too exhausting. Sometimes there was water all around him and a dock above his head and thin fingers wrapped around his wrists that promised not to let go, not for anything.

Sometimes he was drowning, and those fingers were gone, and he had no one to tell him it would be okay.

 

X

 

Sherlock told John one time to not look back, because what was the point in the past if it was the past, anyway?

“What is, is,” he’d said.

John scoffed. “Okay, Spock.”

And Sherlock had cocked his head minutely to the side in a show of confusion. Pop culture wasn’t his thing, and John was surely aware of that.

 

X

 

He was tall and thin and had hair like midnight and a mouth that could tempt saints

He could be an angel, or something like that, if he wasn’t wearing a scowl and fidgeting with the long coat tucked around him.

No, he wasn’t an angel, but he couldn’t be a demon, or any of the sort. He was something different entirely, something new.

John didn’t like new things.

 

X

 

Something held him back from slipping his fingers into Sherlock’s. Something—for only a moment—argued that Sherlock didn’t _feel_ ; he didn’t _want_ to feel. It only lasted a moment. And when John was connected to the boy beside him, something settled in his chest.

It was quiet, a lot quieter than it had been for years. Everything was still, and the faint heartbeat John could feel through the slight contact of hands was enough to tell him this was real.

This, Sherlock, was true.

 

X

 

_And through it all, I know I’ll end up alone._

 

X

 

Sherlock was never one to go shopping. However, Mummy had insisted, and though he’d rather watch paint dry, there was no budging.

It wasn’t until they were in the bread aisle that Sherlock really understood—it wasn’t like the man was inconspicuous in the way he kept flicking his eyes toward the teenager’s mother, and then to the teenager himself.

“Mother,” Sherlock began, “if you’re going to introduce me to that man, please do so soon. Though I don’t know why you’d stage a ‘chance meeting’ at the shop.” It’s a bit cliché, he thought to himself.

Of course, Sherlock didn’t like the man when he met him. To the teenager, he was a bit too…slow for his taste. “Bank teller, single father of a teenager—probably close to my age—and a bit too excited to meet your significant other’s child.”

The stunned look was enough to warrant a chastising throat-clearing from his mother, but it did not stop the boy. “I appreciate the want for friendship, Mr…”

“Watson,” was the reply, a wary look now spreading across the older man’s face. “Jonathan Watson.”

“…Mr. Watson. And though my mother probably told you I was a difficult child, you never expected me to be this bad.” The teenager smirked. “A few swear words here and there, maybe a lip ring; I assure you, Jonathan, that you will probably not like me as much as you initially thought you would.”

 

X

 

“Piss off.”

Sherlock smirked. As if something so mundane as a frequently-used phrase would make him go away.

 

X

 

At some point, John fell in love.

Fell into mocha curls and into the galaxies of those eyes and into lengthy speeches and into big words and into a brilliant mind and into love.

 

X

 

Sherlock fell with him.

 

X

 

Meeting the arse again was going to kill John. He didn’t need this, not after bombing his finals and learning he’d have to work double-time next year just to keep up.

Sherlock Bloody Holmes wasn’t going to make things better, not with his smug look or his tendency to point out other’s character flaws.

Had he ever looked in a mirror?

 

X

 

Year seven was going to be a mess, or so John thought. As his father showered upstairs he tried to concentrate on his studies. Funny, he thought, his dad never whistled while he was in the shower. In fact, he never showered mid-day.

John decided to blow it off, though, because it was summer and he really did not care why his father had decided to switch things up. 

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely interludes involving song lyrics are from Nickel Creek's "Should've Known Better" and The Cab's "Bad".


End file.
